


Time! Please

by RandomDalmatian326



Series: Time!Please [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Bullying, Eric is Gay!, Eric is depressed, Gay!Eric in the South, Homophobia, How Bitty became scared of physicality, Intense Bullying, Jack is anxious, M/M, Soulmate rules, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, mentions of but no death, pre-SMH days, this does have a happy ending but it's really angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 05:36:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12052419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomDalmatian326/pseuds/RandomDalmatian326
Summary: The typical age to meet your soulmate is between 18-24, unless you Summon them. You can only Summon your soulmate if your life is in danger, and every time you summon them, it takes longer to meet in real life.How Eric and Jack have Problems, Summon their soulmate, and eventually help heal each other.





	Time! Please

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is mostly completed. Sorry for the delay in chapter one. The first chapter I wanted to do just didn't sit right with me, and after I published Physicality! Please, I realized I wasn't done with Eric's point of view. This chapter shows the breaking of Eric's spirit, Eric's intense bullying, and explains a little about this universe. Eric is fourteen and a half at the start of this story, and Jack will be 17. I know it's not exactly the five age difference it is in the comic, but my AU my rules I guess. This chapter was pretty hard to write as it is pretty angsty. Next chapter will be Jack's POV.

After that fight with Travis, things changed for Eric Richard Bittle. He was fourteen-and-a-half when he slashed Travis Matthews’ right cheek, when he bit at Ronald Kendrick’s leg, when he formed that scar on Dale Jones’ nose, when he punctured some skin on Todd Smith’s forehead.  
When Eric came home that night Suzanne Bittle had already baked him some pie and had prepared some makeshift ice, and naturally fussed over his injuries. She sat him down straight away at the breakfast table and gave him a bag of frozen peas. He transferred them to his eye automatically, almost on instinct. She fussed over his shirt which had been ripped haphazardly at some point (he hadn’t noticed). She poked and prodded at him, and she determined she needed to call a doctor. With a “be right back honey” she left him with his father to make a hushed call in the living room.  
Eric wasn’t sure what to expect from his father.  
At first there was only silence.  
Eric braced himself for the dressing-down, for the “you shouldn’t fight at school” or the “I’ve taught you better’s,” or even the ever-so-used “save it for the field.” But he did it because he was defending someone, a girl who was in the Gay-Straight Alliance! A girl who was as close of a friend as he had! Who he had escorted home for weeks because she was afraid they were going to jump her again! Even when he was scared himself! When he tried not to let his hand shake so much! When he thought of what would happen if Travis caught two targets at once! He was angry, god damnit! That- that she had to go through that! That he had to! He was fucking _justified_ in fighting them after they were basically threatening her in the hallway-  
Coach cleared his throat, stopping Eric’s thoughts in their tracks. His body was coiled up, prepared to argue, prepared to fight, and Coach opened his mouth and said-  
“I’m proud of you, son, for defending that girl.”  
Of all the things to hear, Eric was surprised he was getting this one. He deflated, and sighed in relief. He still wasn’t sure he was processing this correctly, but he’ll fucking take it.  
He suddenly felt more exhausted just relaxing in his breakfast chair than he had after Katya’s morning triple calisthenics. His body started to throb, just everything started to hurt all at once. His eye, his ribs, his leg. Those boys had been brutal.  
“I heard what happened to that girl, I’m glad you defended her.” Apparently, this wasn’t a dream. His father was proud of him. Something bright bloomed in his chest, something he hadn’t felt since he caught his first football. His dad was proud of him. _Proud._  
It was a high Eric hadn’t realized he missed until his dad suddenly gave it to him.  
He looked up, and his dad was smiling his grim smile. Eric felt, even though his face hurt, his smile in return.  
Proud of him…. Proud of him!  
Coach had maintained eye contact for longer than he had in a long while with Eric. Despite the pain coursing through post adrenaline-crash, Eric felt… happy. God, is this what happy felt like? He’d been chasing the smidges here or there with baking, with skating, where he could be happy if he lost himself in it. If he let his body take over, the feel of hot or cold in his hands… but then he’d come right back to himself and the spell would break.  
But now! Now he truly was happy!  
“I’m glad to see you’re dealing with this like a man, Son.”  
And as per the course of Eric’s life, his happiness crashed down. Like a man. It stung, worse than his eye. His throat felt like cotton. Like a man, Son. It wasn’t that Coach was happy because what Eric did was all right and good, he was happy that Eric was acting like a man! A Southern man that fought with his fists. A Southern man that played football and fought and didn’t skate or bake or do whatever he did. Coach wasn’t seeing Eric, Gay Boy Baking Figure Skater Extraordinaire, he was seeing what he always wanted for a son.  
 _Like a man._ His heart shattered into a million tiny pieces.  
Fine. If Eric has to be like a man, he wouldn’t give his father the pleasure of seeing him cry.  
“Right,” He forced the word out, and managed to keep his voice steady as he headed up the stairs. If he could just, take a small break from this bullshit… that would be great.  
He fell into bed, and didn’t even set the alarm. He didn’t even care if he slept through school, or the next five years. He knew his mother would at least give him tomorrow, with all his injuries. He’d probably be up at ass o’clock to see his GP. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to get back up.  
-x-x-x-x-  
Things seemed to return to normal Monday morning despite his long weekend away. His mother was insistent about him returning. She smiled as she said it, but he basically had no choice.  
But he saw her pack an extra slice of pie to put into his lunchbox, so maybe she was just trying to get him back in the swing of things. They had talked about a lot of things over the weekend, but never once did Eric admit to being bullied. It wasn’t really bullying if it wasn’t physical, at least in Georgia. He had told her where it hurt, and she tried to cheer him up with the latest drama with Aunt Judy trying to find a better way to make her preserves- “Really Dicky, doesn’t she know she can’t top mine?” She avoided talking about the fight or what lead up to it.  
His now-black eye was going through a weird green-brown phase, and his ribs had been wrapped in some sort of tape for protection. When he stepped into the halls, whispers followed him everywhere he went, but none of the teachers treated him differently in passing. Maybe it was because they were trying to go back to business-as-usual, but in a small high school there was really no such thing.  
He got shoved around, which was as per the course of his life. He got ignored in the halls by people from the Gay-Straight Alliance. Maybe even more fiercely than usual. He couldn’t particularly blame them, he had painted a huge target on his back for retaliation.  
Being Coach’s son provided a sort of security, but not so much so as not to get at least pranked.  
Ellen didn’t say much to him before the bell, but she raised her hand to chest level, ever-so discreetly greeting him from across the hall. She started going his way when, suddenly, the bell rang.  
Her mouth snapped shut before she could even get the greeting out, and she seemed to be swept into the crowd to go to classes.  
His first class was gym. Shit.  
He ran towards the south of the building, into an empty locker room where he threw down his bag and changed haphazardly into his tank and basketball shorts. Somehow he managed some tennis shoes as well, and slid into the gym right as the late bell rang.  
Coach was leading this class. Gym, or some sort of physical activity was needed to graduate. Of course, as Eric had put off signing up for classes, he got his dad as a teacher. In a boys basic gym class. It was a joke class, where they ran the “Lamar Mile” (a 1.5 mile run) around the school and adjacent buildings supposedly “improving” their times, playing Frisbee, and passing a Presidential Fitness Exam. It was easy as a class could get, which was why Travis, Ronald, Todd, and even Dale were in the class too.  
After role was called and the rest of the class dismissed to run the mile, Coach called the five of them aside.  
“Now boys,” He began. “Save the fighting for the field. No fighting on campus.”  
There was silence and disbelief.  
Mostly disbelief on Eric’s part. This was all his father’s protection could get him? That was it? A slap on the wrist? Barely two sentences? Where was the father that cursed like a sailor every time his boys missed a clear play? Where was the man that struck fear into football players with just a look? Was this even the same man? What was even happening? Did that even count as a reprimand?  
Travis and his gang exchanged glances. They all smiled like sharks.  
“Of course Coach.” They replied, almost in perfect unison.  
Coach nodded, his universal sign for dismissal.  
Eric wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to hit something. This was the moment he needed his father to defend him, to dress down the boys who had hit his kid! He needed his father for protection! He needed him! And his father just, he just turned his back on him!  
After that first wave of anger, there was nothing left to say. Nothing he could do, here, where people were listening. There was no way he could scream or yell because then it would be “The Gay Boy is too sensitive.”  
Eric could be like a man. He could. He- he could. Absolutely. _Like a man._  
Eric closed his eyes for a second and just nodded once.  
He was so entirely fucked.  
He joined the rest of the class.  
-x-x-x-x-  
Towards Monday mid-day, the word had apparently gone around of what had happened (or didn’t) in first period. The shoves between the rest of his classes got harder, the snickers louder.  
It was clear that the protection that everyone thought Eric had? It was just as real as his attraction to girls.  
Which is to say, it was nonexistent.  
As the day came to an end, and Eric stood in front of his locker, a malicious voice whispered in his ear “You’re gonna fucking get it, you fucking fag.”  
When Eric whipped around, Travis was standing behind him with that smile on his face.  
Eric, with no time to lose, slammed his locker shut and had booked it towards the door.  
When he looked back, Travis was still in the same place, laughing all by himself.  
-x-x-x-x  
Sometimes at night Eric took comfort in seeing the name scrawled on his wrist. He liked how it was stylized, how loopy the cursive font was. He would trace it across his wrist, memorizing how it wasn’t too big or too small, how it was just right. How it wasn’t crammed together but perfectly spaced apart, yet still legible. _“Jack.”_ He wondered if he’d ever get to meet him. Was he in Georgia? Was he from somewhere else? What would he look like? Would he be tall? Would he be big, like a safety? Would he like baking? Would he like skating? Would he love Eric? Would he wipe those tears away that he cried silently at night, all by himself?  
Soulmate Education in Georgia was usually taken your sophomore year (or second year) in high school. It was classified as a sex-ed course, which meant that the state mandated how it would or wouldn’t be taught. And the only reason they really taught it at all was because it was federally mandated.  
Eric was still in his freshman year and barely knew anything about the marks themselves. What he did know, however, were the rules for Summoning. Those were things kids passed around these days: what a blue waffle was, that vaginas were warm, and the Summoning.  
All Eric knew was that you could summon your soulmate if and only if you were in mortal peril. Like your actual life was in danger.  
He didn’t know how to do it, had maybe tried a couple of times just in case, but he never met this “Jack” so apparently he hadn’t done it right.  
His parents didn’t talk about the Summoning at all- their Southern sensibilities had them believe that it wasn’t appropriate to talk about with your kids, that the school would eventually teach it, and the rest was a “journey for each individual.” It wasn’t that his parents were prude, it was more that they strongly believed in the individual journey.  
Many books in small town Georgia were banned from the school library because they focused on sex or soulmates. Those were highly controversial, and some PTA moms demanded that they were too profane for children, even high school aged ones.  
Eric could very well search the Internet but there was almost no way to separate fact from fiction, or even fact from rumor. Each Soulmate experience was incredibly unique. Eric was familiar, if only briefly with the _Fredrick Prison Experiment,_ a highly scandalous (and now illegal) Soulmate study of the African American, Latino, Asian, and Jewish population of the Fredrick Prison: mostly against their own will. That’s where most of known Soulmate information came from. But that study had been completed throughout the 50s. A lot had changed since then.  
So no, Eric only really knew two basic facts about his mark: the name, and the conditions to Summon your soulmate.  
Sometimes you needed some hope when everything seemed dark. That name on his wrist? That was something tangible and permanent, that didn’t go away at 8 o’clock when his ice time was up or when it was consumed. It was something he could trace his finger over and over. It was something that told him, “You’re not alone.”  
-x-x-x-x-  
To say the bullying got worse after Monday was an understatement. Tuesday morning he was running late because he didn’t want to get out of bed. He nearly skipped gym but he knew Coach would dress him down if he didn’t see his own son’s face.  
Nothing happened within his dad’s peripheral vision, but the second the class was allowed to run around the school, Eric had been pushed into the road face-first maybe three times. Little rocks in your mouth crunching in between his teeth? Eric achieved a whole new level of salty.  
Second wasn’t much better. He had forgotten his book in his locker, and was forced to share Amy’s copy of _Geometry: Essentials._ She was a know-it-all picture perfect cheerleader. Some girls still stuck to the stereotype despite most being nice to his face. Every time Amy nearly touched his fingers she ripped her hand away like he was diseased. Her treatment of him was nothing new, it had started since sixth grade when he refused to kiss her during the Middle School Dance. But not even wanting to touch him? That’s just another thing to add to the list.  
Third was lunch, thank god. Eric retreated to the library’s non-fiction section where none of these illiterate fuckheads went. He could enjoy his mama’s casserole, two pieces of pie, and an apple in peace and quiet, with an actual electrical outlet. He could plug his phone in and for thirty glorious minutes he could go down Twitter and read his Internet friend’s journeys in baking and follow the latest gossip on other YouTubers.  
When he opened his locker after lunch, ketchup had spilled and spurted unto him like some low-budget version of _Carrie._  
He was already running late to class, as he was dreading leaving Twitter at all, and didn’t even have time to grab an extra sweater or shirt from the nurse’s office.  
He walked into fourth period English with his right side entirely stained by ketchup.  
There were snickers, but since he arrived before the late bell, the teacher didn’t even spare him a glance.  
It was thirty minutes of sitting in ketchup, Eric couldn’t really concentrate on the analysis of _Romeo and Juliet._ All he could feel was sticky and gross and dirty. The day wasn’t going particularly well.  
In between fourth and fifth period, he had enough time to get an extra shirt from the nurse, who fussed over him like his mother. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or just… uncomfortable. However, the only shirt they had was an XXXL, a cheap one-sized-fits-all model of the uniform.  
So he not only felt like Carrie the fourth period, he was going to look like a weird homeless kid for the rest of the day. Great. Awesome. Wonderful.  
Politely dismissing himself from the nurse’s office, he got into his _dear god why_ course: French. The woman actually could speak decently, despite the rest of his class having terrible accents. Eric only wanted to be able to read French cookbooks.  
This class was just hell on its own, Eric could ignore his back being kicked by Aaron Swells, another one of Travis’ minions.  
Sixth period, history, was a combination of various things. Dr. Feris didn’t really teach- he was the cynic history teacher with a doctorate that was too disillusioned with high school kids. He would give a worksheet and fuck off to the front of the room where he didn’t like to get up. Every ten minutes when the class would get too loud he would bang the gavel, but he wouldn’t get up unless it was the end or start of a period.  
Worksheets went out, and at first everything was normal: not too noisy, but not silent. Travis was drinking a can of Coke and decided it would be a wonderful time to go specifically past Eric to talk to Amy.  
Coke “accidentally” spilled all over Eric’s spare clothes.  
As Travis snickered, Eric “accidentally” stuck his leg out when Travis went to pass him.  
Travis smacked into the tile floor, and the whole class went quiet.  
And then Travis got up, grabbed Eric by the collar, and threw him towards the empty desks in the corner of the room.  
Eric’s hand went to his left pocket as his back was stabbed by one of the desks.  
Travis’ hand went for his face.  
Travis hit first, but Eric wasn’t even feeling the force of his fist, and he didn’t restrain himself- his keys, tucked between his knuckles, went from Travis’ face and down, HARD.  
It was the same side he had gotten on Thursday, and it reopened the wound on his face, as well as scraping across his neck, and ripping a bit of Travis’ shirt.  
As Travis grabbed for his face, Eric’s right leg kicked out, hitting Travis in the shin.  
He couldn’t hear anything but his own breath, and the blood rushing in his ears.  
He couldn’t hear the cheers and screams of his classmates as they circled around the two, forming a circle around the fight, watching Eric Bittle and Travis Matthews: one an unlucky gay boy and the other the school’s “golden boy.”  
Eric and Travis didn’t hear Dr. Feris call for order, didn’t hear him calling the office.  
All Eric could concentrate on was getting distance between him and Travis. His kick did a good job at that, but Travis was a football player. He centered his head, put his hands out, lowered his body, and tackled Eric unto the floor.  
Eric’s right hand flailed wildly with his keys, trying to get any bit of Travis.  
Travis kneed him somewhere in the stomach and started wailing on him.  
Eric tried to buck Travis off, but it was no use. He tried kicking, no use. His right hand sunk the key into Travis’ bare thigh and forced it down, but even then Travis kept hitting him.  
He wasn’t sure how long it took- maybe four minutes- but the wrestling coach stormed in, parted the sea of observers, tossed Travis off of Eric, and dragged Eric into the office.  
Eric was going in alone _again._  
-x-x-x-x  
He got sent home early. He was able to wash his clothes, thank god his mother hadn’t been home. She had been running some errands for his MooMaw. He blasted Beyoncé and managed to do his clothes before she got home. She would have asked too many questions he didn’t want to answer.  
Somewhere he still wasn’t processing the principle’s words, of how Eric instigated the fight, how the principal was worried about him fighting in school, over how he shouldn’t jeopardize his Daddy’s team as they had a chance to go to state that year, about how Eric should watch his grades.  
Eric withstood his father’s silence and his mother’s silent but stifling worry over dinner that night.  
He excused himself early, missing the worried looks his parents shot over his head.  
He couldn’t concentrate over his homework so he decided not to even try.  
He closed the door to his room, collapsed into bed, and surfed Twitter.  
His mother came in at one point to turn off the light.  
Eric kept scrolling, the glowing phone giving him a source of comfort. He kept scrolling until his eyes started getting too dry, and he blinked as he realized that 9 PM had turned, very quickly, into 3:30 AM.  
He needed to be up at 7:30 for school.  
-x-x-x-x  
Days turned into weeks and Eric was emotionally and physically exhausted. It felt like he was getting sent home every other day for fighting, but never suspended. His Daddy could at least protect him that much. His grades went from solid B’s to C’s, nearly dipping to D’s.  
Travis’ face was developing scars from the keys, and Eric was developing a habit of taking care of his bruises in secret, and taking daily visits to the nurse’s office. He was tired in every way. He was tired of not sleeping during the week and sleeping too much during the weekend. He was tired of being Travis’ punching bag. He was tired of Travis’ pranking and the target on his back. He was tired of being avoided by practically everyone, except maybe Ellen. She wasn’t coming to school much these days, but then again Eric’s days were blending together. Eric wasn’t sure if he should feel guilty for not walking her home every day- but as soon as he was able to get out of school… he booked it. When he wasn’t sent home for fighting he would mostly remember to walk her back. He kept up his chatter when he spoke to her: not because she was very responsive these days but mostly for himself. He didn’t talk much to anyone unless it was answering something in class or his vlog. It was nice to, every once in a while, speak to someone who cared. Ellen never said anything about it, and maybe it kept her mind off of things too.  
September ran into October, his grades the only thing really doing sort of okay. He didn’t talk to his parents much, but when he did it was about very certain subjects. He talked with his Mama about baking and gossip, he talked to Coach about football, Beyoncé, and his grades.  
He continued his YouTube baking vlog and didn’t mention anything of his personal life, same as usual. He was positive and chipper when recording, and it seemed to be taking more energy to record each time. He had moved from daily blogs to every other day to once a week- claiming he was busy trying to figure out new recipes. The truth was he barely had the energy to pick up a pie tin these days. His mother, every once in a while mentioned how she missed him in the kitchen. Eric would always sort of grunt noncommittally and the conversation would switch to neighborhood gossip. Coach even started going out of his way to speak to him about Beyoncé, which made him unconsciously perk up each time.  
Every other day he would go skating at the rink at the edge of town, just to get his mind off of things, at least for a while until Edna, the ancient lady, chased him off for closing at 8.  
One day, close to Halloween, he was heading back from the rink when he got jumped.  
It was the same four from that fight so long ago, the fight that started it all. Travis, Ronald, Dale, and Todd. They had their own share of bruises and scars, special courtesy of Eric himself. He had been looking down at his phone with his skating bag thrown over his left shoulder and hadn’t noticed their presence.  
“Well well faggot” Travis’ voice sent a chill down Eric’s spine, and he looked up to see Travis’ broad body. His phone clattered to the concrete as he spun around, but Todd, Ronald, and Dale were behind him.  
He was surrounded.  
“Hold him.” Travis’ voice sounded out, and Eric’s arms were held in a vice grip.  
“Payback’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Ronald whispered in his ear.  
Eric thought that this is where he was going to die. Just like in the news- Southern gay boy dies at the hands of bullies. A story splashed across headlines in liberal media, a story buried deep within the papers in the South.  
The name on his wrist stung just a tiny bit, and the name glowed the smallest bit, but Eric didn’t notice. He wasn’t going to take this bullshit lying down.  
They fell unto him like a pack of wolves, and Eric struggled the whole way. He punched, he bit. Not with very much success as Ronald and Dale were holding him steady, but he was trying.  
It wasn’t until one of them had grabbed one of his figure skates that Eric was past well and truly terrified.  
On his stomach, they took the thing he loved so much and started carving it into his skin. He kicked Todd in the nose as he was carving on his stomach, but that just caused Dale to hit him right behind his knees that brought him down.  
After that he doesn’t remember much but pain, screaming, and then nothing.  
He woke up on his back on the concrete, his mind registering that he was awake, his body screaming. His eyes opened slowly, one of them was probably swollen- and he just… looked up. The stars were bright tonight. Pretty. Their glow was comforting, and though it hurt to breathe, there was a weird sort of peace in that moment.  
It was silent, just him and the stars. He wondered, briefly, if he had passed out due to pain or just exhaustion.  
He took a stuttering breath and was just tired. He felt more tired than he had that morning. Tired was Eric’s new state of being. It was with him now. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t tired.  
He had never known a concrete parking lot would be so comfortable. Sleep sounded like a great idea right about now. He closed his eyes.  
The name on his wrist began to glow. His wrist stung, but Eric couldn’t tell the difference between that pain and the pain throughout his body.  
He stuttered through another inhalation.  
The glowing increased.  
Just as he felt himself falling into sleep, his phone rang, jostling him out of his thoughts. Beyoncé’s _Ring the Alarm_ blared from his phone, not that far from him.  
He rolled over and realized his mother was calling.  
Shit. He had promised to help her work on the bake sale for the church.  
His phone screen still seemed mostly okay, if not for the crack in the top left corner where it had hit the ground.  
The name stopped glowing.  
“Yeah, I’m just runnin a lil’ late mama. Edna was just tellin’ me-  
-x-x-x-x  
Eric traced the name on his wrist just one time after he finished helping his mama, who didn’t question why Eric looked a lot more beat up than when he left. He never really spoke much about anything other than baking, gossip, football, and Beyoncé. And that night, he didn’t talk much about skating either.  
“Why didn’t you come?” He muttered to himself, but he knew he wouldn’t get an answer. He still had to go to school tomorrow.  
Eric fell into bed at 9, and didn’t wake up until 6:30 AM.  
He didn’t get out of bed until 7, when he couldn’t put it off anymore.  
He trudged into the main building by his locker, minding his own business when Travis and his gang neared him.  
Eric saw flashes of the fights they had in his head, of Travis smiling as Todd sunk Eric’s skate into his skin. He saw flashes of last night, of “Hold him” and “payback’s a bitch.”  
Eric flattened himself against the locker.  
Travis and his gang walked particularly close to him, getting so close that their breath was nearly on his skin, taking pleasure in him finally shrinking back, until the bell rang.  
They laughed as Eric ran off, but there was no escaping them, he’d see them in 1st anyway.  
In first, Travis’ gang purposely ran just behind him the entire class. Every once in a while he would lose them by speed alone, but when he slowed, they kept nearing him like a pack of coyotes.  
Eric tried to procrastinate going to the locker room, wanting them to leave, and by the time he had gone back to the locker room, his clothes and bag were covered in lotion.  
Eric, by this point, was no stranger to getting spare clothes at the nurse. In fact, he had given her some of his spare uniforms at this point.  
Eric was tired. Just. So tired.  
He got pushed around, had food dumped all over him, but he continued and soldiered on, because he had to. _Like a man._  
In seventh, Travis muttered something pretty loudly about Eric and his “faggy ass” for the whole class to hear. Eric didn’t hear exactly what was said, as Bey was in his ears, rolling in _Diva_ , but at this point he didn’t really need to, everything out of Travis’ mouth was derogatory when it came to him.  
Eric was just so done. He turned down Bey and said loud enough for the whole class to hear,  
“Listen honey, you need to stop being so obsessed with me. No need to follow me around for my number. Just ask, maybe next time I won’t key your face.”  
The whole class _ooh’ed._ Eric was far past caring, punishment be damned. He was going to get his ass beat anyway, but with words he was smarter and better.  
Travis’ face went purple, but he had no retort.  
The rest of the day Travis’ gang left Eric alone. It was a sort of blessing, and Eric was able to (somewhat) relax.  
He really should have known better.  
He, finally, was able to go to biology without being sent home for fighting. Or them getting him. He was still anxious but bio wasn’t much better than history anyway. Dr. X was a big fan of giving them busywork and not quite explaining what it was, being due at the end of the week. But she did maintain that the class had to be quiet.  
Eric was able to do his work, and then requested to go to the restroom. He always felt anxious being alone since he was jumped, so he went down the hall in record time. Since the carving incident, he took to using the stalls instead of changing in the locker room air or using the urinal.  
When he came back to class, Dr. X was sleeping (as usual) at her desk. The window next to Eric’s seat was open, making the class a lot less stuffy than before.  
When Eric sat down again, he realized his stuff wasn’t at his feet anymore.  
He looked down, and found his stuff by the incinerator on the ground floor, dumped from his backpack.  
The only way to ge to the incinerator was through a small alley.  
G r e a t.  
There was no way he was going to be able to get out of class again, or get his stuff until the day was over. Magnificent. Wonderful. Fuck. He looked over his shoulder to find Aaron smiling smugly.  
At least he had his phone and keys in his pocket. His wallet, too. He _could_ abandon his shit but his parents would ask questions about the backpack. He had finished his French homework too, which had taken him two hours, and that he didn’t remember the answers to.  
No choice then. He had to get it.  
After the bell rang, Eric was hurting from the day before, every step he went down jostling his stomach or his ribs, his arms were heavy and his legs were barely holding it together.  
The whole day he was having trouble breathing, and was trying to center himself and maybe forget the pain or the tiredness for a minute.  
It was just a regular thing now, but today everything hurt more than usual. Nothing was right, but hey this was just one more thing to add to Eric’s life.  
He walked down the alley and wouldn’t you know it, Travis and his gang were there. Travis hadn’t taken kindly to Eric insinuating gayness then.  
Eric was tired. He flinched away at some point, but then they had surrounded him and backed him into one of the alley walls.  
The blows hit, much faster and harder than usual (was it possible?). They were meaner and louder slurs shouted at him. Elbows, fists, and feet.  
Eric was afraid and tired and hurt. At some point, he had collapsed to the ground, he couldn’t remember when.  
The name on his wrist glowed blue in the afternoon sun. His wrist stung, but Eric just tried to protect his head at this point. It hurt so much to breathe.  
He could feel his eyes slide shut no matter how hard he tried to keep them open. His body was tired. He was tired. As much as he had slept so much, he didn’t sleep well.  
His arms loosened around his head. This was his life now. His stomach stung in phantom pain. He was so tired. He wanted to pass out. _End. Let this end._  
One of the boys stepped on his wrist, causing it to snap.  
“Jack” glowed brighter than it ever had, but Eric didn’t notice. His wrist seemed to be burning, which Eric attributed only to the break.  
“We’ll kill you,” Dale sneered.  
“Lights out, faggot.” Travis sneered.  
Eric screamed, a noise rising from his core, a _“this is it”_ thought slicing through his head.  
And at that moment, the whole alleyway was bathed in a blue light.


End file.
